A Waitress in Utah
by c1araoswa1d
Summary: The Doctor finds comfort in a familiar face in an old diner. (Written pre-series 9 based off set photos.)


He was tired of taking the bus around town; tired of the normality of human life, but he'd accepted it. For the time, anyways, it had become a necessity. Tardis temporarily defunct, trapped in Utah, no way to get around otherwise. She always said it would do him good – spending more time around humans. Learn, she told him. Learn to blend in just a little – just _enough_.

The gears grinded to a halt angrily and his body lurched forward as he listened to the doors open. He pulled his head off the glass and straightened his sunglasses to look out at the stop just in front of the familiar diner. The Doctor brightened briefly as he picked his guitar up and lugged it down the steps, looking out at the mostly barren landscape, the mountains rising in the distance, and he breathed in the exhaust as the bus coughed and whined and then continued down the road.

Some part of him tried to pretend it was like emerging from his old blue box and he gave a sad smile to the memory of her warbled song. Eyes closing, he thought to her lights and her warning bells and then he looked around and exhaled angrily. "Humans and their _slow progression of time_ ," he muttered, moving towards the diner that waited.

There was a bell that hung above the door and it chimed as he made his way inside, but no one looked. What was the point, he always wanted to ask. He'd asked her once, the waitress in blue who spun about the few tables taking and delivering orders, and she'd simply smiled and told him it was part of the charm. Of course he'd taken her answer with a grin – she'd become part of that charm.

"Ah, Doctor," she called, head coming up to give him that smile – the one that made his hearts thump loudly in his chest – as she asked, "The usual?"

"Still working?" He questioned curiously.

Wrist coming up, she tilted her head and offered, "Still on the clock," then she turned fully towards him as he sank into a booth, "Good thing since I'm the only one who can get your order right, aren't I?"

He laughed at that, nodding because it wasn't really true, he simply didn't appreciate his food brought to him by anyone else. Why would he want anyone else, he'd told her once. She'd given him a dangerous grin and responded matter-of-factly, " _That's right, why would you_?"

She pranced behind the counter and called out a few items to the man in the back who bopped his head and continued working at the grill. And the Doctor smiled when the waitress slid a mint chocolate chip milkshake onto his table before going back to another to check on their meal. He hadn't asked, but she somehow knew. Grinning at the thought, the Doctor plucked a wad of cash from his pocket and he began to count away, surprised when the booth suddenly jerked with the light weight dropping into the opposite seat and he found himself looking up at her dark eyes.

"So tell me," she whispered with a nod to his cash, "Playing the streets, how'd you make out today?"

He laughed, looking to the counter space at his left, "Shouldn't you still be working?"

She waved a hand, "Nah, they've got it taken care of." Then she smirked and teased, "You're my customer now."

Showing her the money, he supplied, "About fifty, which I suppose will do."

He wasn't sure, it seemed like it would, and he didn't want to sound too much like he was questioning it. She asked him every so often – whether to gauge the size of her tip, or out of genuine concern for his wellbeing, the Doctor didn't know. But she often snuck him a slice of pie after his bill, so he presumed the best.

He always would of _her_.

Across from him, the brunette flopped back against the cushioned seat and she took his milkshake to sip as he smiled, pocketing the money and lifting his chin. "And you? Profitable day as well?"

She reached into her apron and removed her own wad, fanning it slightly between her thumb and forefinger and estimating with narrowed eyes and pinched lips, "About the same, more or less."

The Doctor laughed and took back his shake casually as a bell rang behind the counter and the waitress jumped up to retrieve his food, falling back into the seat across from him to deliver it. He spun his plate around to examine his burger and fries and then he looked back to her, asking, "Shouldn't you still be working?"

Picking up a fry, she giggled and told him on a shrug, "I got off five minutes ago."

"You said you were on the clock," he reminded wryly.

"I lied," she sang, amused with herself, and the look he'd given her.

He laughed then and shook his head, and then he picked up his knife and cut his burger down the middle, gesturing at her and watching her take up the half to eat. Because he knew those tips wouldn't fill both her mouth and that of the young girl waiting at home with her mum. And he knew the waitress would skip her meal to feed her daughter – she'd told him once before.

Taking a lazy bite, the Doctor watched her pull a napkin from the dispenser at her side and he swallowed to tell her, "You're quite the conundrum, you know that."

Waving a hand, she smirked and told him knowingly, "That's why you keep coming here."

Head tilting slightly, the Doctor asked, "What makes you say that?"

Across from him, he could see the brown eyes looking him over before staring into him as though she could see into his mind as she grinned and then held her bottom lip between her teeth, letting it glide out slowly. He watched her dimple deepen just a moment before she began to speak, softly, and without a hint of the playfulness that generally tinged her voice.

"This is a shit burger."

He laughed, loudly, and turned away from her as he pointed with his free hand. Listening to her chuckle, he shook his head and offered, "And here I thought you would say something _poignant_." He nodded, then repeated under his breath, " _Shit burger_."

Finishing her half, she stood and began to undo the apron around her waist, shifting to begin her buoyant walk towards the back room, but she stopped, turning and looking him over again before telling him, "I'm sorry about her."

The Doctor swallowed roughly, setting the last bite of burger he held down, and he looked up at her round face, suddenly seeped in sadness, and the way she nodded shortly and took a breath. And he waited.

"Whoever she was; however you lost her," she began before finishing, "I'm sorry."

"How..." he sighed.

She smiled, "The way you said my name, first day you walked in."

"You said it wasn't your name," he reminded with a smile.

"I know," she agreed, "But I must remind you of her."

The Doctor merely nodded, turning his eyes away as she twisted her body hesitantly in each direction, as though unsure of whether she should begin her journey home to her child or remain with him a little longer. She usually stayed, he knew, and he knew why. He bowed his head and picked up the terrible burger, pushing it between his lips and then took several long sips of the milkshake before pulling an envelope from the guitar case. The Doctor added the wad of cash from his pocket to the money he'd collected and exchanged for crisp new bills inside and he sealed it, thumb running over her actual name as his mind went over the note nestled just inside.

One he'd held onto for weeks, knowing one day he'd have to leave.

And as he felt his Sonic buzz in his breast pocket, he knew it was time.

It didn't explain a thing, merely thanked her for being a friendly face in a difficult time. The only face he longed to see; the only face that could sooth his pain. He smiled at the thought as he stood and picked up his guitar, making his way towards the door with a whispered, "Goodbye, Clara."


End file.
